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不合逻辑的天真 

2019.12



她出生在南方的小镇里,那里曾是水草丰茂,稻谷丰盛的地方,后来被一下子推倒,哗啦啦地起了高楼。每天,她牵着保姆阿姨的手,穿过十分钟的风去上学。亚热带的大地早早把她催熟,所以六岁的时候,她试图去爱了一下隔壁的男孩子。她抬头告诉妈妈,然后穿过幼稚园的人群,奔跑着、扑向他,随即被拉走。


“你在干什么?怎么不像一个女孩子。”


“女孩子”。好多年以后她打开图片搜索,视窗里弹出的一张张脸,肤如凝脂,都是娇滴滴的黑发亚洲女孩,姿态各异地垂着眼睛,看向镜头,像蝴蝶敛了翅。为什么爱一个人不是女孩子?为什么一个女孩子能“不像”一个女孩子?那个时候的她尚未理解被“女孩子”三个音节包裹下的多重期待,只能把这些诘问囫囵吞了下去,和其他长大所需的养分一样流进她的血管和毛发里,然后竹子一样拔节。


可是十一岁她就停止了生长。小说里的生长痛对她来说是沙漠里的大海,浪漫虚幻又无法企及,五尺的她从此只能扮演一个可爱的角色,或者说她甘愿扮演一个可爱的角色。毕竟,能怎么办呢,得像一个女孩子。也是在这个时候,电视上播的魔法少女动画给她的人生铺开台阶。拾级而上,新的世界在闪闪发光,她开始学习新的语言。“女らしい。“她口齿不清地学着念道。“かわいい……きらきら……”,新的语言有相似的基本符码,层层转译后困惑都消失啦——女孩子是娇柔的,光芒四射的,只要眨一眨眼睛就能带来力量。


十三岁那一年她跟暗恋的男生在漫展接吻,踮起脚尖,心里是隐晦的不安。他为什么喜欢我呢?他说,因为ヤスミン是最可爱的。可爱……前些日子她特地穿过整个城市,为了这次约会,她花光了积攒下来的零用钱来买一件魔法少女制服一样的蓬蓬裙洋装。均码的衣服松松垮垮,在她身上随着每次跳跃而晃荡。很浅的吻后男孩紧紧抱住她,像是把衣服压扁缩小在她身上一样;男孩子的衣服也因为紧张变得汗津津的,是要浸透她让她再缩水一点吗,可是她已经够迷你了。人群中两双眼睛亮晶晶的,因局促不安而回避着彼此,碰一下就弹开。“爱一个人不是女孩子”……她想起这句话,那我现在不是女孩子吗。店主在摊位叫卖,看到他们靠近,“来买一个情侣手链吧!”情侣?她咬着嘴唇咬住忍不住要溢出的雀跃,得来的却是男孩子的沉默。是害羞吗?她想。


日本电视里的女孩子情人节送本命チョコ,躲在楼梯的拐角处,假装不经意偶遇,然后从身后把丝带缠绕的小盒子双手递出。这一个片段她翻来覆去看了好多次,又找到了相似的片段,覆去翻来地又看,现实生活中根本就没有这样的机会呢,恋人也太羞赧了点,接到礼物也不知道会不会开心。圣诞节的前夜,她还是去超市买了可可脂。也没有模具,她把融化的棕色半流体倒进果冻盒里,放进冰箱冻好,几个小时后把一个个爱心形状的盒子反转,敲出来。她把一颗颗心放在小盒子里手忙脚乱地装好,准备第二天带到学校去。也是在这个时候,她看到电视上播的偶像私服秀。和恋人去圣诞忘年会穿什么呢?夏天跟憧憬的前辈去海边穿什么呢?和朋友去游乐园穿什么呢?那些女孩子故作姿态地扭着走出来时她也忍不住笑了。想要燃烧自己,去爱人,和她一起去创造恋爱的幻象,被爱的幻象!


幻象——男孩子在另外一群男孩子的目光中撕开包装,得意洋洋,把巧克力分掉了。那可是她在半夜躲着爸爸妈妈小心包装的心意呀。她爱他的证明,没有换回他爱他的证明,可她这么做是因为她爱他,还是她爱爱着他的她?其实他喜不喜欢巧克力她也不知道,只是用双手做成的小小心意承载着她对恋爱的一切想象。她回家,在房间的小屏幕中看偶像的综艺节目。少女厨房——假装做给你的恋人。假装,因为偶像有恋爱禁止的呀。这些在最好的时光里被禁止春心萌动的少女们满足于自己编织出的恋爱梦想吗?有“饭”的支持就可以了吗,梦想就是她们的恋人吗。她看到网上说“饭”支持偶像,是把未竟梦想放在了这些往前冲的女孩子身上,不禁想自己是否也可以带给人同样的力量。毕竟这听起来太诱人又太轻而易举了,她在男孩子身上得不到的爱恋可以在那么多人身上索取回报。


她是无私的,想要燃烧自己予人快乐;可期待所有人也热烈地爱她,又显然过于幼稚,这也不是春天播种秋天收获的道理。十八岁那一年她来到了东京,说是要上语言学校然后念大学,实际上只是随便找个借口成为偶像,做最女孩子的女孩子。她柔软的天真把内心里刚强的那一部分包裹得好紧,是掺着沙子的蚌。她不要产出珍珠,只想着把自己打碎了重组,坚硬的东西就会被吐出来。化成水吧!化成水之前,也要吃点苦头的。我在遥远的下雪的群山里,想象娇滴滴的她来到东京,坐标系变换后结果自己变成了男孩气的代表,得有多难受啊!她能告诉爸爸妈妈吗?我想象她用半生不熟的日语写第一封应募邮件。出身地,她写“中国”——然后在面试的时候花时间去解释这不是日本中部贫瘠的小小岛屿,而是东边广袤的大陆。年龄,十八岁——有点儿老,但还不错,还有几年时间。我想象她来到堂吉诃德的门口,按下电梯坐到七楼,只在电视上才能看到的女孩子出现在自己眼前;想象她面对着制作人玩味的微笑,手背在身后搓着衣角,“准备考大学啊……真要强,学业对你来说那么重要吗?”想象她经历生命中的第一个冬天,穿着打歌服跳跃在前所未见的风里雪里;想象她跟队友妹妹一起来到竹下通排好长的队吃可丽饼;想象她学习把自己过往的一切放在手上,高高捧起,撒向空中,只为了让台下挥舞荧光棒尖叫的人快乐。


她确实也只记得这些片段式的回忆,练习歌舞准备登台的记忆对她来说是模糊的。小时候所有不习惯的指令又回来了。“害羞一点,看着镜头。”“看着你们的观众!”除此之外还有兼职舞蹈老师的教导:要好好地保护自己的肌肤和眼睛哦。“少看电脑跟手机,不然眼睛里的光就会消失了。”


其实也没有练习歌舞很久,主要的还是学习取悦观众。她一有空就打开手机看流媒体视频,试图找到一套放之四海而皆准的方法,如何合适地去给予爱,怕自己和粉丝面对面的时候热情到吓人。视频多数都是从观众的角度拍的,没有人能告诉她怎么获取人气,只有纪录片大剌剌地写,“偶像们都付出了很多努力哦”。努力这是当然!她暗想,有点恼火,仿佛又回到了恋爱时经历的那些困惑里。怎样让自己合适地被爱;怎样能以一个好的姿态暗示所有人多看看她,而不像在摇尾乞怜或是恳求。只不过这一刻她清醒的多,知道自己不过只是在编织一个幻境,自己正在爱人的幻想。而在这个系统里这些努力终究会有回报。


第一次登台后换下的打歌服挂在休息间的椅背上。汗水把头发湿成一缕一缕,湿答答地粘在脸颊上,脱下衣服时她闻到了女孩子的汗水的味道。自己的、陌生人的,是鱼腥味。这件衣服之前属于谁?我想她大概不知道自己继承了谁的人生。“饭”是不会继承的。观众可能会成为“饭”,往后就会成为神,支撑着所谓偶像的神。为了神,她跟队友们围成圆阵大声叫喊。“感恩,谦逊,闪闪发光!我们是……终演后物贩!”


拍的第一支音乐视频,讲的是“饭”第一次参加签售会的场面。剧本里的粉丝惴惴不安,她也惴惴不安,唯恐镜头把自己拍胖了一公斤。别的日本女孩子看起来过于游刃有余,早就习惯了在镜头前散发魅力似的。“这样怎么比得过嘛……”她忍不住想,“我们中国女孩子就没有学过努力讨人喜欢。”她被挑出来拍摄特写镜头的时候怎么也无法自然又真诚地笑出来,却被摄像师称赞“很害羞,很好,能带给人初恋感”。她想笑又不敢笑,“经验丰富的人才能更好地创造出恋爱幻象吧 ”。


公演,直播,握手会,签名会,拍摄宣传材料,日复一日,粉丝来了又走。最起初,握手会上来看她的人比较多,大家都想看看中国的女孩子跟日本女孩子有什么不同。渐渐,等待跟队友说话的队长起来了,她想可能是日本的女孩子比较温柔,或者只是她性格中尖冷的冰还没有融化成水。她开始有意识地去取悦他人。笑的时候眼睛弯弯,握住不认识的粉丝的双手时也要挠一下手心,狠狠抓紧。有年纪比较大的人来时,就得摆出一副小女孩的温顺样子,重复“好哦”、“是的哦”。“下次要记得来哦——”,则是所有偶像都会使用的万能咒语。


她看着那么多人为自己,坐夜间巴士而来,在短暂的相聚后又坐夜间巴士离去,万般柔情涌上心头。她赶忙在夜里手写小卡片,“很高兴今天见到你,希望还有时间说更多话!”拜在中国的训练所赐,她的假名和汉字写的都很好看。从前她苦于没有人留意或称赞,现在每一次递出卡片,都能收获粉丝们由衷的赞美,她感到报复式的快感。队友们有时也写相似的小卡片,可她仅仅因为自己字好看这一件小事,就隐约觉得自己高她们一等似的。来看自己的粉丝越多,人气越高,收入也相应地越多。幸运的是她家庭富足,不必费尽心思讨人喜欢来养活自己。 但相应的,这可能也给她带来了多一丝退路。


那天过去的恋人来到东京,她理应是不应该去见面的。万一被“饭”见到了怎么办?“还会支持我吗?”可她还是跟他来到了商店街,街边是积雪。缠在行道树枝叶上的小灯管星星点点,她跟他的距离只要再远一厘米就看不到光了。他们沉默地往前走,穿过光的尸体和冬天的干冷气味。最后他忍不住停下转身,试图索要一个吻,她摇头:“对不起……会被拍到的。”太多次,她小心翼翼,谷歌搜索自己的名字,生怕有不好的评价。她知道有团体的成员恋爱被发现,结果印着那位成员的着火的照片跟CD就出现在匿名论坛上了。大概是哪个偶像的疯狂支持者,失去了自以为是独一无爱的爱,太过沮丧,忍不住想要摧毁有关的一切,想到这个,她更不想看到自己的脸出现在燃烧的照片上了。


第二天的圣诞公演,她想起男孩子试图靠近的嘴唇,一阵混杂着羞耻跟兴奋的颤栗游过身体。早已编码在体内的舞蹈动作僵住了,她在高高的舞台上一脚踩空,膝盖着地。她右手撑地,想站起来,反倒摇摇晃晃地倒下。舞台灯控机灵地灭了几盏彩灯,把她困在黑暗里,匍匐离开。好痛,但比不上那一阵恍惚更令人痛。她在想什么直到被送进医院住下也没有明白。太多问题悬而未决。男孩子想要什么,她想要什么。明明她漂洋过海就为了追寻偶像梦想,也打算好好遵循恋爱禁止的规定,怎么就这么迷了心窍呢。


她的伤不太重,只留院观察了一天就坚持要离开,为的是站在新年公演的舞台上。经纪人反复打来电话劝阻。“你休息一下吧,万一有还没检查出的伤呢。”她本不想寂寥地度过新年前最快乐的时光,可接下来一周的公演排班表上还是多了个缺席成员。


她说她好久都没有这么长的空闲时间了。不方便出门,没法练习跳舞,她读过去在中国读的书,做数独,寂寥地躺着,男孩子试图来探望也不让。她恼怒,“很高兴见到你,但上次见面的事情你最好忘了吧。请不要打扰我和我的事业。”


“差不多得了吧,你也二十二岁了。老大不小了。”


她假装没有听见他对偶像系统的攻击,又或者第一次直面“你老了”这种评论,她正忙着咀嚼这一事实造成的她的打击,无暇思考更恶毒的那一块言语。世界那么广大,二十二岁才不老呢,她一边跟自己说,一边隐约意识到她跟这个世界的关系就是唱歌跳舞变漂亮。我想,所有的偶像只要短暂地脱离那个环境,都会意识到这个系统有多荒诞吧。在她诉说时,我压根不敢跟她提起“荒诞”这个词,但相信她心里有数。


她来不及翻到自己字典上写着“荒谬”的那一页,已经觉得很累。


她把自己准备离开的消息告诉队友妹妹,队友妹妹“诶——”了一声,咬着嘴唇,流下眼泪。她问队友妹妹什么时候也会走,她们说,自己喜欢娱乐圈,想要再等一下有没有机会走向更大的舞台。啊,原来是跳板呀,原来给喜欢我们的粉丝们的爱,都是桥和跳板。最后都要通向别的地方去的。


她站在舞台的灯光下,跟所有前辈一样,假装郑重其事地宣布毕业,台下也假装惋惜。大家都心知肚明这是在走过场。很快,大家都会走,聚光灯投向更小更年轻的人身上,而她想到比小岛跟大陆更广阔的大陆去,又或者说广阔只是她的想象;与她差不多同时抵达这片大陆的我,也觉得这只是她的想象。纽约对我们来说都是半生不熟的,虽说是个移民城市。这条不广阔甚至从另一种意义上有些狭窄的道路上,没有所谓的“女孩子”,只有女人。壮硕的苗条的窈窕的踩着高跟鞋像战士一样走下地铁的女人。


她坐了十二个小时的飞机后,走出肯尼迪机场后,新的世界徐徐打开。相当有一段时间中,她不知道要跟谁在一起,对于中国女孩子来说她显然过于柔弱,去寻找日本人的族群又太奇怪了。她做回沉默又敏锐的观察者,把自己丢进黄色的地铁里,被人群压过头顶。有些时候又把自己放在街边的长椅上,看着比日本跟中国街上都多得多的狗走过眼前。


下午三点四十二分,我领完日本签证走出使馆。在人来人往的莱辛顿大街上见到她。她米白色马海毛毛衣的纤维跟脸上的绒毛一同支棱在秋天的阳光下,我忍不住走上去搭话,请问,需要帮助吗。


很明显地,我其实也没有那么想要帮助她,只是找一个借口,把她捡来自己的生活圈里,毕竟她身上散发出的天真,披散下来的长发,像是一个理想中的我,在很小的时候也憧憬过。她操着十八岁以来就未曾使用的英语,怯生生地回答“不用了,谢谢”。我感到全身上下有点燥热,像是目的不纯被识破了一样,心烦意乱地用日语问了一句“真的吗”。在我耳里,这像是无谓的最后挣扎,她明显不这么觉得,而像是被触动了似的。很快,两个小女孩一起坐到了附近的甜品店里。


我们短暂地分享了彼此的生命经验,作为小小的女孩子的哀愁和困惑,加入和不曾加入偶像团体的原因,跟纽约这个庞然大物周旋的方法。我试图指予她一条不甚主流的路,如此用激烈的方式去介入,探索“爱”和爱以外的寻欢作乐似乎也不是不可以。可她摇摇头,试图再解释什么时,她的脸色已经些微地愠怒了。


她想去坚定地爱人的身姿在纽约显得过于叛逆,像一个殉道者,发光后沉入龙舌兰的海里。在分别前,我一边习惯性地帮她留着门,右手滑开屏幕关注了她留给我的Instagram。我们走进车流中,在夕阳的余晖下里草草挥手告别。她偶尔发一些自己的照片,但除此之外,再也没有听过别的消息了。


ILLOGICAL INNOCENCE


She was born in a Southern town, where the aquatic bloomed and paddy sprouted. But all at once they were shoveled, and replaced by skyscrapers. Everyday, she took her nanny’s hand and went to school through 10 minutes of wind. The subtropical land brought her up early. So at six, she tried to love the boy next door. She looked up and told her mother, then through the kindergarten crowd, she ran and threw herself towards him. And she was pulled away.


“What are you doing? Why aren’t you acting like a girl!”


“A girl.” Many years later she did a photo search. Faces popped up in the search window. All of them with skin fair as snow; all of them coy, black-haired Asian girls. Some lowered their eyes, some looked at the camera, all were butterflies with converged wings. Why is it that loving someone makes one not a girl? How come a girl can be “un-girl-like”? Back then she was yet to comprehend the hidden expectations under that one syllable. So, with all other nutrients, she swallowed those interrogations into her blood and vein. And she jointed, like bamboo.


But she ceased to grow at eleven. The kind of pain she had read in novels, the elusive and intangible pain that swings from heightening, became an ocean in the desert. She who is 5 feet is stuck with playing this endearing character. Or perhaps a more suitable wording would be willingly. She plays it willingly. After-all, what can she do? She has got to act like a girl, no? It was also the same time when the TV started broadcasting animations starring magical teenage girls, the same animations that opened curtains to new phases of life. As she walked through the drapes, the new world glistened and she began learning a new language. “Onnarashii,” she uttered the words. “Kawaii……Kira Kira……” this new language has similar symbols. And translations after translations, her confusion was cleared-- girls are delicate and radiant, they bring power through a blink of the eyes.


At thirteen, her crush and her kissed at anime-con. She tipped her toes, but murky disturbance lurked inside her. Why would he like me? ‘Because Yasmine is the cutest of all,’ he said. Cute… A while back, she travelled through the city and spent all her hard-saved allowances on a bubble skirt that resembles a magical girl’s uniform, specially for this date. The free-size dress seemed baggy on her. With each hop, her dress fluctuated. After their light kiss the boy held her close, as if to compress her clothes onto her; his clothes were moist with nervousness, did he want to shrink her even more? But she was tiny enough. Amongst the crowd, two eyes gleamed. They averted each other because of the butterflies in the room, and bounced off at each encounter.


In Japanese TV shows, girls would give chocolate to whom they considered their life’s core. They would hide in the corner of a staircase, staging a run-into, then bring out the little ribbon-wrapped box from her back and offer it with both hands. Yasmine watched that clip over and over. Then she found a similar clip, and watched that clip over and over. ‘There isn’t a chance like that in real life!’ she thought. Her lover was a bit too modest, she wasn’t even sure if he would be glad receiving a gift. Still, on Christmas Eve, she went to the supermarket for some cocoa fat. Not having the proper molds, she poured the melting brown liquid into a jello box and refrigerated them. She took the heart-shaped boxes out in a few hours, turned them around, and knocked the chocolate out. She put her hearts hurriedly into a gift box, ready to bring it to school the next day. At the same time, she saw a TV show on idols’ private wear.  What to wear to the Christmas Bonenkai? What to wear to sea, with the senior she was infatuated with? What to wear to the amusement park with friends? She couldn’t help but laugh seeing the girls walking  wobbly, pompously on TV. She wanted to ignite herself, to love someone, to have someone create the illusion of falling in love, to create the illusion of being loved!


Illusion -- The boy tore the packaging, gloating over the gazes from other boys, and split the chocolate among them. That was her sentiments carefully packaged under the cloak of night! The proof of her love, the proof of not having his love in return… But, did she make the chocolate because she was in love with him, or with the version of herself, who fell in love? In fact, she didn’t know if he liked chocolate, it was just that those handmade hearts carried all her fantasies of love. She went home, and watched a variety show on the small screen in her room. Girl’s Kitchen -- pretending to cook for your lover. Pretend. Because idols are forbidden to date. Were the girls, prohibited from feeling affection in their prime age, satisfied with the dream of love they themselve conjured up? Is support from fans enough? Is their dream their lover? She read somewhere online saying that a fan supporting an idol is to project one’s unfulfilled dreams onto these flourishing girls. And she wondered if she could bring such a power to people as well. Afterall it all sounded too tempting and effortless, the love not returned from the boy could be gained from so many others.


She is selfless, she wanted to burn herself to render people happiness; but in expecting immense love in return, she is overly naïve. For we don’t necessarily reap what we sow. At eighteen she came to Tokyo. She said she wanted to go to a language school and then university. But in fact, those were just pretexts for her to live her idol dream, to be the girliest of girls. Her tender naïtivity cocooned her fortitude so intensely as if a clam holding on to its sand. But she didn’t want to produce pearls, she wanted to smash herself and rise from the ashes, so the hardness inside her would be released. Melt into water! But before melting into water, a bit of suffering is indispensable. In the distanced snowing mountains, I imagined her, a fragile girl coming to Tokyo, becoming the pronoun of boyish. How unsettling it must have been for her! Could she tell her parents? I imagined her writing her first cover letter with her green Japanese. For birth place, she put down “Chūgoku”. Then during an interview, she would spend time to explain how it’s not a barren island in the middle of Japan, but a vast land from the East. Age, eighteen — a bit old. But that’s alright, she still had a few years left. I imagined her in front of the door of a discount store named Don Quixote, pressing seven in the elevator, seeing girls she would only see on TV appear in front of her; I imagined her facing flirtatious grins from producers, her hands hid behind her, rubbing the edge of her cloth. "Applying for college, huh? How determined... Is your academic that important to you?" I imagined her going through the first winter in her life, dresses in her stage costume, dancing in the never-before-seen wind and snow; imagined her queueing with her younger teammate for delicious crepes; imagined her learning to put her past in her palms, lifting them up and scattering them into the sky, just to bring joy to the screaming crowd who waved glow sticks under the stage. 


And indeed, these splintered recollections were all she remembered. The memories of rehearsing and preparing for the stage were vague for her. The unaccustomed instructions from her childhood reoccurred. “Be shy, look at the camera,” “Engage with the audiences!” Apart from that, there’s the teaching from the part-time dance teacher: protect your skins and eyes attentively. “Don’t stare too long at your computers and smart-phones, or that gleam in your eyes will go away.”


In fact, they didn’t spend much time rehearsing, the main focus was still learning to please the audiences. Once she was free, she would stream videos on her phone, trying to seek for a universal method of giving and showing love, so that she wouldn’t scare off fans with her passion when they met. Most of the videos were from the perspective of an audience, nobody could tell her how to gain popularity. All she had was the obvious “idols worked hard” in documentaries. ‘Of course they worked hard!’ she thought to herself, agitated, as thought she was back in the confusion she had being in love. How to be loved appropriately, how to properly imply everyone to pay more attention to her without seeming like she was begging or desperate. But at this moment, she was much more sober. She knew she was only weaving a wonderland, a fantasy where she loves somebody. In that system, all hard work is paid off. 


After their first performance, she hung her stage costume on the back of a chair in their dressing room. Her hair soaked with sweat, sticking on the side of her cheeks. When she undresses, she smelt the odor of girls’ sweat. Hers and others’, it was fishy. Who did this dress belong to? I assume she didn’t know whose life she inherited. Fans are not inheritable. Audiences may become fans, and then they’d become Gods, Gods who support the so-called idols . For the Gods, her teammates and her stood in a circle and chanted, “grateful, humble, shining! We are… Shuengo Buppan!”


Their first music video was about a fan’s first signing event. The fan in the script was unsettled, and so was she. Worrying the camera may put pounds on her. The other Japanese girls seemed to be handling it with much ease, they were accustomed to putting their charisma on display in front of a camera. “How am I gonna compete with that...” she couldn’t help but thought, “Us Chinese girls have never learned how to please people.” When she was called out for her close-up, she could not, for the life of her, figure out how to smile naturally and genuinely. Yet she was complimented by the photographer, “Very shy, great! It’d remind people of their puppy love.” She wanted to smile, but she didn’t dare -- maybe only the experienced can better create the  illusion of dating.


Performances, live streams, handshake events, signing events, shooting for promotion material,  fans came and went. Day in, day out. At first, most people went to her during the handshake events. They all wanted to see the difference between Chinese girls and Japanese girls. But as the time went on, the waiting line to meet with her teammates got longer. She thought maybe it was because Japanese girls are more gentle, or it was just that the sharp ice in her character had yet to melt into water. She started pleasing people consciously: smile with crescent eyes, hold and tickle the palm of fans even when she didn’t know them, and grab them tight. If someone older came, put up a girl-child front. And repeating, “Oh, good,” “Oh, yes,” and “Oh, remember to come next time--” is an all-powerful spell every idol knew by heart.


She was swamped by tenderness seeing so many people coming and going in night buses, just for their brief encounter. At night, she occupied herself with notes-writing: I am so very glad to have met you today, hope we’ll have more time to talk! Thanks to her training in China, her Kanas and Kanjis were all neat. She used to be blue about the lack of attention and compliments. But now, every time she hands over the notes, she could receive genuine praise from fans. This provided a kind of vindictive thrill for her. Her teammates wrote similar notes as well, but the fact that her handwriting looked better was enough to make her feel rather superior to them. It seems with more fans and popularity, her income would relatively increase as well. The lucky thing was that she came from a well-off family, so there was no need for her to rack her brain and entertain people so they’d provide for her. Yet on the flip side, that gave her a fallback.


That day, her past lover came to Tokyo. Rationally, she shouldn’t have met with him. What if her fans saw? ‘Would they still support me?’ But she went to the shopping street with him nonetheless. The sides of the streets were piled with snow, specks of string lights were wrapped onto the branches on the sidewalks. If he and she were one centimeter further from each other, the lights wouldn’t be visible. Through the corps of light and the scent of the cold, dry winter, they marched in silence. At last, he couldn’t help but turn, tring to ask for a kiss. To which she shook her head, “I’m sorry… we might get caught.” For far too many times, she had googled her name with utmost alertness, fearing for a negative opinion on her. She saw when an idol was caught dating. Soon after the exposure, pictures of burning photos and CDs of that idol flooded anonymous forums. It was probably some frantic supporter who was too depressed from losing their so-believed one and only love, that he felt the urge to destroy all that was linked to her. Thinking of this made her repulse the idea of seeing her face on a burning picture even more.


The next day during their Christmas performance, she thought of the boy’s approaching lips. A tingle of mixed shame and excitement traveled down her spine. The dance moves coded in her froze. She missed her step on the stage and landed on her knee. She pushed her right palm against the floor, trying to pull herself up. But instead she stumbled, and fell again. The light manager was sharp enough to turn off a few lights and trapped her in darkness, struggling to get away. It hurt. But nothing hurt as much as that moment of trance. Her questions were still unresolved when she was hospitalized. Too many pending answers. What did the boy want? What did she want? She drifted across the sea to live her idol dream, and she intended to follow the no-dating rule, why was she suddenly bewitched?


She wasn’t hurt too badly, and insisted on leaving after one day of inward observation because she wanted to be on the stage for their New Year’s performances. Her manager called her repeatedly to stop her, “Get more rest, what if there are unsuspected wounds?” She didn’t want to spend these supposed happiest moments before New Year in solitude, yet there was still an absent member on the performance schedule next week.


She said she hadn’t had such a long break in a long time. She couldn’t go out and she couldn’t dance. She read the books she had read back in China, played sudoku, and laid down in isolation. She didn’t even let the boy pay a visit. She was exasperated, “It was glad seeing you, but you better forget what happened last time. Please do not interfere with my career and my life.”


“Oh c’mon, you're twenty-two. That’s not young anymore.”


She pretended to not have heard his attack towards the idol system. Or she was unable to process the more vicious part of his word being busy dealing with the crushing fact that -- someone just told her, “you’re old,” for the first time. She told herself, “the world is such a big place, twenty two is not old.” But at the same time she started to realize the only relation she has with the world was to sing, dance, and be prettier and prettier. I think, if all idols dissociate with that environment ever so briefly, they would realize how absurd the system was. But when she was telling me all these, I couldn’t bring myself to say the word ‘absurd’ to her. But I believed that she knew it, deep in her heart.


She was just exhausted before she could turn to the “absurd” page in her dictionary.


Informing her younger teammates with her aggranged departure, they signed in disbelief, bit their lips and teared up. She asked them about their plan on leaving the group. But they said that they liked the entertainment industry, and wanted to wait for a chance at a bigger stage. So it was a springboard all along. The love we have given to our fans, they were bridges and springboards that led to other places all along.


She stood under the spotlight, like all those before her, announcing her “graduation” as if it were a big deal. The audiences pretended to feel sorrow too. They all knew it was a show. Soon, all would be gone. The spotlights will focus on someone younger, and she wanted to visit a broader land than this island and the mainland. Maybe the vastness was in her imagination. I arrived at this land about the same time as she, and I, too, think that’s just her imagination.Though it is called a city of immigrants, New York was alien for the both of us. On this not so wide road, in some sense, narrow, even, there aren’t any girls, only women. Women who were statuesque, slender, and sylphlike; women who step on heels and march down the subway like warriors.


After her twelve-hour flight, after her departure from JFK international airport, a new world revealed itself in front of her. For quite a while she didn’t know who she belonged with. She was clearly too delicate for Chinese girls, but to seek belonging from the Japanese group seemed outlandish. So she returned to her observer state, silent and keen. She threw herself in the yellow subway,  letting the crowd above squeeze her; she put herself on benches on sidewalks, seeing more dogs walk by than she had seen in China and Japan.


3:42pm. I had just got my Japan Visa and was leaving the embassy. And there she was, on the flooded Lexington Avenue. The viber on her beige mohair sweater and the velvet on her cheeks stood together under the autumn sun. I couldn’t help accosting. Hi, do you need help?


Certainly I wasn’t that keen on helping her. It was only a pretext to fetch her into my life. For seeing the naïtivity she beamed and her hanging long hair, she reminded me of the ideal I held for myself a long time ago. She replied timidly in her rusted English, a result of her abandonment of the language since 18, “No, thank you.” I felt red all over, as though my impure intention was spotted. Disturbed, I asked in Japanese, “Are you sure?” To my ears, the words were the sounds of me latching onto the last driftwood in a howling stream. But apparently, she didn’t feel the same. She was, dare I say, touched. Not before long, the two little girls were sitting together in a nearby dessert house.


We shared our lives with each other briefly. The sorrows and confusions as little girls, the reasons for our joining and not joining idol groups, ways to mingle with this grotesque creature we call NYC… I tried to point her to an unorthodox road. It didn’t seem forbidden to explore love and the indulgence apart from love in a vehement manner. But she shook her head. When I tried to elaborate, she seemed to be sulking. 


Her unyielding determination to love appeared to be rebellious in the midst of New York, like a martyr extinguishing into a tequila sea after a flare. Before we separate, I held her door habitually while my right hand clicked ‘follow’ on the Instagram account she had left me. We walked into the stream of cars and hastily waved our goodbyes under the setting sun. One in a while, she would post pictures of herself. But apart from that, there wasn’t any other news.

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